


He Would Turn the Sky Blue

by Kendrick_Harlow



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Dean Winchester's Taste in Music, Gen, Jack wants to be good, Team Free Will 2.0, They're a family now, no one can tell me otherwise
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-12
Updated: 2017-12-12
Packaged: 2019-02-13 18:07:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 941
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12989598
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kendrick_Harlow/pseuds/Kendrick_Harlow
Summary: "There was only one way this was ever going to lead. Jack, though his powers did not encompass the gift of prophesy, berated himself for not seeing it. When he was born, a rift opened between two worlds. It was only fitting his destiny dragged him back there. Jack brushed his fingers against the edges, so jagged they should have cut through his skin, yet instead glowed more brightly at his touch."Fighting the good fight meant that the battle never ended."





	He Would Turn the Sky Blue

**Author's Note:**

> This is, admittedly, more-so a prediction about how I think Season 13 could end.

There was only one way this was ever going to lead. Jack, though his powers did not encompass the gift of prophesy, berated himself for not seeing it. When he was born, a rift opened between two worlds. It was only fitting his destiny dragged him back there. Jack brushed his fingers against the edges, so jagged they should have cut through his skin, yet instead glowed more brightly at his touch.

Fighting the good fight meant that the battle never ended.

“Jack?” Castiel called, not quite comprehending. Sam, too, bore an expression of perplexity, though with a hint of horror that told Jack he suspected what was going on. Dean _knew_. There was no doubt. The grim acceptance had already settled into the faint lines beginning to peak out from around his eyes.

“I have to go,” Jack said. “I don’t want to, but I have to.” Because sometimes you had to take the pain and man-up, as Dean had told him once, at the very beginning of Jack’s life. “Look at what happened because I was here.” Though the gore of their victory was long gone, Jack gestured as if all the dead were piled on the floor around him.

“That’s not your fault,” Sam countered.

“It’s not my _fault_ ,” Jack conceded, “but it happened _because_ of me. And it will keep happening.” Again and again and again. He didn’t need to be prophetic to see that. Half-mesmerized, he turned back to the rift. On the other side waited the aftermath of a grueling apocalypse, finally over now that it’s leadership had met its bloody end. “This world doesn’t need me, but I could do good there. All I’ve ever wanted to was to be good.”

Castiel vehemently disagreed, and showed it by striding forward, as if any physical action he took could even possibly stop a determined archangel nephilim. “You belong here,” he insisted. “With us. We’re your family.”

“I know,” Jack agreed. “But I need…space to spread my wings?” Jack hoped that was the right turn of phrase. He offered a tentative smile. “It’s the right thing to do. For me.”

Dean nudged his angelic best friend aside, not to argue, but to grasp Jack’s shoulder. “You’ll come back to visit.” It wasn’t a question, but Jack nodded regardless. “Good,” Dean said. “Do me a favor, then. When you get there, find Bobby Singer. He’s a smart son-of-a-bitch. If you’re gonna save the world, you’re gonna need his help.”

“Bobby Singer,” Jack repeated. “I got it.”

Jack understood that Dean hugging people was an anomaly, and so was pleasantly surprised to be wrapped in a warm embrace. A flannel, coffee-scented cocoon. It didn’t say, _“Goodbye.”_ It said, _“Come back safe.”_ All from the man who’d wanted to kill him less than a year ago.

Sam’s hug was more expected, but also threatened to crush his spine, which was a feat considering Jack’s durability. “Good luck,” he said. “I have faith in you. And, hey,” Sam let out a short, melancholy chuckle, “we better see you at Christmas.”

“I look forward to it.”

Sam’s arms left, and Jack grew disconcertingly cold as Castiel regarded him in silence, blue eyes scanning for an unspecified sign. Or maybe another argument. Finally, his shoulders slumped in resignation, and those blue eyes transfixed on Jack’s own, both parties unblinking in a way only those with celestial power could manage.

“I knew you would change the world for the better,” Castiel said, voice low. Subdued. “I suppose I was just wrong about which one.” He pulled Jack in. It was a parent’s embrace—the kind a father might give before sending his son off to college. Or maybe war. The hug tightened. Definitely war.

“I love you,” Castiel said, and Jack felt light pressure on the crown of his head. It took him a moment to realize it was a kiss.

Jack’s eyes went warm. His throat ached. He didn’t like these sensations, but he knew they were human—the _most_ human—and so knew he had to feel them. To push them away would make him cold and cruel like many of the angels he’d fought. He pressed in closer. “I love you, too.”

As soon as Castiel let go, Jack didn’t hesitate, lest he find himself reconsidering his choice. Rather, he threw himself backward into the rift, eyes closed. He didn’t want to see the sadness. He wanted to remember love and caring and warmth and family. He’d need it in the upcoming months. After all, that was exactly what this other place was lacking.

They gray and dust of Apocalypse-world pressed into his senses, and eventually, the backs of his eyelids could no longer shield him from it. The bleakness was already suffocating. With a sigh, he reached down and tapped the dirt at his feet. From it struggled free a bright yellow blossom. The first spark of color among the gray. He smiled down at it.

He could make this world better.

He _would_ make this world better.

But first things first: He had to track down one Robert “Bobby” Singer. The Winchesters had saved the world more times than anyone else; Jack figured it would be prudent to take their advice if he wanted to save this one.

He caressed the soft yellow petals of the small flower, convinced himself to _hope,_ and spread his wings. The wailing guitar of _Freebird_ piped up in the back of mind—a memory direct from the Impala’s cassette player. He grinned to himself. Then, Jack Kline took off into a gray sky that, one day, he vowed to turn blue.


End file.
